


the part where the moral kicks in

by wrishwrosh



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Chipotle as Plot Device, Established Relationship, Love Languages, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-12 00:30:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15983756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrishwrosh/pseuds/wrishwrosh
Summary: JT doesn’t really know where people hide engagement rings. But some shriveled up, rom-com part of his brain says sock drawer, and that feels right.Or; JT Compher learns to communicate.





	the part where the moral kicks in

**Author's Note:**

> i did not think at all about the logistics of this mystery future season and neither should you! the working title on this one was 'and they were ROOMmates' sooo
> 
> title from all my friends by lcd soundsystem

JT wakes up, like usual, sweaty and completely smothered by Tyson. JT sleeps like a corpse, flat on his back with his arms at his side, hardly moving an inch once he’s out. Tyson is the opposite. Right now he’s got one arm jammed behind JT’s neck and the other wrapped in a death grip around his stomach, drooling on the cracked Avs logo right over JT’s nipple.

Luckily, at this point JT’s gotten the hang of how to very slowly dislocate his shoulders to get his arms back without waking Tyson up. He works one out of the tangle and weaves his free hand into Tyson’s hair, carding through it slowly. It’s a nice morning. He always likes waking up before the alarm.

The fancy blackout curtains got left open last night, and JT is pretty sure the sun coming through the window is what woke him up. Still, it feels kind of peaceful. The yellow morning light is shining on all the dirty clothes and shit they left on the floor and on the fancy rug that Tyson’s mom made them buy, and it looks nice. Sort of settled.

On top of his chest, Tyson stirs. “Ugh,” he says.

“Morning, sunshine,” says JT.

“Fuckin, ugh.” Tyson turns his face further into JT’s chest, the pressing the bridge of his nose into JT’s sternum. “Time is it?”

“Time for you to get a watch, babe.”

Tyson shifts his face over an inch and bites JT right on the pec, hard.

JT yells, flailing the arm that Tyson isn’t still on top of. “God, you dick,” he laughs. Tyson laughs too, giggling sleepy and slow through a mouthful of JT’s shirt. JT can pinpoint the exact spot where Tyson’s front teeth are still pressing into his chest, his mouth wide in a grin. With his mouth open like that Tyson’s still drooling a little bit, but it’s okay. JT’s shirt was already all spitty anyway.

He tugs on Tyson’s hair, not hard. Just to say good morning. Tyson hums. “How much time do we have before skate?”

JT pats around on the nightstand for his phone blindly, because he knows from experience that Tyson isn’t going to let him sit up for a few more minutes at least. He reels it in by the charger and flashes the time at Tyson, who barely even opens his eyes. “We still have like forty-five minutes.”

“Awesome,” says Tyson. He yawns so big his jaw cracks. JT feels the crack almost more than he hears it. “Wanna fuck?”

JT snorts. He pulls on Tyson’s hair a little harder this time, less saying hello and more saying _hello_.

Tyson picks his head up and leans into a kiss. Both of their mouths are a little dry and sticky and morning breath-y. 

They make out for a little bit, and then they grope each other through tangled up pajama pants for a little bit, before eventually making their way to lazy handjobs. It’s too warm under the duvet. Tyson’s mouth tastes like garbage, and JT’s is probably the same. At one point he has to pinch Tyson on the arm so he doesn’t fall back asleep.

Afterwards, Tyson flops back down on JT’s chest for a minute, notching his chin on JT’s collarbone while he watches Instagram stories. 

“One of us is gonna have to change the sheets now,” JT mumbles.

Tyson grunts.

“Or nobody does it and we just sleep on gross sheets,” says JT. 

“Even odds,” says Tyson. It’s a nice morning.

+

“Have you ever thought about getting married?” Tyson asks later. Casually, as if that’s even a little bit a casual question to be asking at 9:30 AM while JT’s busy dumping protein powder into the blender.

“Just, like, in general?”

“Y’know,” says Tyson, swirling a spoon through his bowl of granola. Tyson doesn’t even like that kind of granola. He says that the dried cranberries make his teeth hurt. JT buys it for them at Costco and then lets Tyson eat it all so he has something to complain about. “Whatever.”

“Mm. Not really,” says JT, somewhat lying. Of course he’s thought about getting married. In a conceptual kind of way, mostly. Sometimes he’ll be at a buddy’s wedding and think, wow, this is really nice. Plus most people get married eventually, and it’s been legal for him, for them, for a while. So yeah, JT has technically thought about it. Nobody, however, Tyson or otherwise, has ever asked him about it directly. It’s like a switch flips in his brain, a tiny electric shock. It suddenly seems very important to not be talking about this any more. Fortunately he’s pretty good at making conversations very difficult to have. This is an unhelpful way to be, and it’ll probably get him in trouble.

“Oh, okay,” says Tyson. He squints into that stupid granola like he’s trying to vaporize the craisins with his mind. “Me neither. Don’t know why I asked. Weird question, sorry.”

Correction: it will definitely get him in trouble. He turns on the blender. The grinding noise fills up the whole kitchen. Normally Tyson would just shout over it, but he’s being very quiet all of a sudden.

JT’s not afraid to admit that he likes it when things are easy. He’s happiest when he knows what’s gonna happen and when, and no surprises. Tyson’s the same, mostly. They’re still both hockey players, and they’re both down with routine. But compared to JT, who would be totally okay with some kind of Bill Murray scenario where literally every day was exactly the same, Tyson almost looks reckless. 

JT did put “get married” on his internal calendar as something he'd get around to at some point. As far as he can tell, Tyson just says and does things right when they come into his head. Getting married. Huh.

JT looks over at Tyson, who is shoveling granola in his mouth like he’s expecting it to light on fire any second. Every time he bites down, he scrunches up the whole bottom of his face in disgust. JT stares at the weird twist of his lips and sighs. Shit just sort of bounces right off Tyson. He probably already forgot he even asked a question. 

“Do I have something on my face?” Tyson asks.

“Nope,” says JT, stopping the blender. “Should probably shave though, bud.” The smoothie is turning out weird and thick, and he can’t remember if he did anything differently when he was making it. It’s Tyson’s fault for making him think too hard while he was putting the ingredients in the blender. 

“Maybe I’ll grow a real beard. I’d look hot.”

“Mm. Maybe.” JT grabs a cup that looks pretty clean and pours his smoothie into it. It comes out of the blender with a queefy sounding glop, which Tyson would normally laugh at. Tyson doesn’t laugh.

JT opens the drawer where he and Tyson keep all the weird utensils they’ve collected since they moved in together at the beginning of last season. Usually there’s straws in there along with all the cheese knives and lobster forks and other kitchen shit they never use. Today there’s nothing, probably because JT always forgets the straws are reusable and throws them out on accident. He makes a mental note to buy more straws. That’ll probably get done right after he and Tyson have a serious discussion about their fucking wedding flowers. 

The kitchen is just a little too quiet. JT, strawless, slurps at his smoothie.

“I fucking hate this granola. Why do you keep letting me buy it?” Tyson asks with his mouth full.

“Why do you keep eating it?”

“Who knows,” says Tyson. He works his tongue in the back of his mouth for a second before spitting a half chewed cranberry back onto his spoon. JT takes a big sip of his chunky smoothie and decides not to think about it.

+

As it turns out, it’s harder to not think about it than JT thought it would be.

He thinks about it on the drive to skate, and then all through skate, and then on the way home from skate they get stuck in traffic on 25, even at fucking 11:30 AM, which gives him even more time to think. Too much time to think is never a good thing. He doesn’t want to overthink Tyson. In his previous experience, there’s never been much to overthink. Not in a mean way, just that Tyson has always said what he thinks and what he wants. It’s not hard or confusing to be with him. Or at least it never had been before now. Now shit feels suddenly complicated.

Tyson likes to nap on the downstairs couch, because he doesn’t care about the long-term health of his back. The couch is from Ikea. Say what you will about Swedish design, but that thing is about as comfortable as a sheet of plywood as far as napping goes. JT naps in their bed, which they bought at least partly for the purpose of sleeping. Today, however, JT is not sleeping. He’s still fucking thinking.

After Tyson breaks off for his own nap, JT really does try to sleep. He shuts the blackout curtains and puts his phone on Do Not Disturb and everything. But his mind keeps running in the same circles it’s been treading since his breakfast smoothie. Even the supposedly calming classical music playlist he finds on Spotify doesn’t shut his brain up.

It’s kind of embarrassing, but JT has never spent too much time considering the future. The future in general is weird and hard enough, marked out in vague milestones based on shit his mom and his agent and his financial guy have said to him. Stuff like: contract negotiations, at some point, and retiring, eventually. The future of his relationship pretty much never entered those calculations. JT has just sort of assumed it would continue.

He remembers when they were both sweaty, awful rookies, bumping up against each other and bouncing back off for months. Before he and Tys got their shit together, they drove the vets and Kerfy insane. But even before they were a thing, Tyson was always there. A constant in a really good way.

He imagines standing up with Tyson in stupid matching tuxes and and boutonnieres and shit. Tyson’s sister would give a really embarrassing toast and both of their moms would cry and they’d have really good music at the reception. It would be really nice, most likely. And then after the wedding, they would be married. That would also be—nice, maybe.

But if they were married, there would be all kinds of new shit to deal with. Citizenship and joint finances and telling people outside of their families and the team. Being together _forever_ forever, not just together with this feeling he has now where he can never imagine them breaking up. If they got married and then broke up, they would have to break up with a lawyer.

That’s just an if, but an intimidating one. It’s like a whole new world of confusing possibilities got cracked open in JT’s head. He rolls over and punches his pillow. Why would Tyson even bring this up?

Maybe Tyson brought it up because he’s about to propose. He could be testing the waters. There could be a stupid viral proposal around any corner. Tyson’s not really the type for elaborate planning, but JT’s still worried. He has to know.

“Fuck,” he says, to no one.

He doesn’t really know where people hide engagement rings. But some shriveled up, rom-com part of his brain says _sock drawer_ , and that feels right.

JT hurls himself out of bed and yanks the sock drawer open with a rattle. Inside, all his and Tyson’s jointly-owned socks are neatly separated in their own little mesh compartments, sorted by color just like they were when he got dressed this morning. He doesn’t see any ring boxes. In the interest of being thorough, JT plows his hands through all the little bundles of socks. A ring might be underneath or tucked inside one or something. He grabs handfuls of socks, squeezing them to check for suspicious ring-shaped bumps and tossing them aside once they've been cleared. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Tyson asks from somewhere behind him. JT didn’t hear him come into the bedroom, probably because he was too busy touching every pair of socks in the condo. Tyson’s in the doorway when JT turns around to look at him, curls flattened on one side from his nap.

“I’m looking for—socks,” says JT. 

“Shit, you found them.” Tyson’s voice is still thick and sleepy. He scoops a brown pair off the ground and tosses them hand to hand. His eyebrows are knotted up in the middle of his forehead.

JT looks down at his feet, where pretty much all the socks they own are scattered all over the bedroom floor. There’s a pair clutched in each of his hands. He must look insane. Also, he feels like a little bit of an asshole. Obviously there is not a ring.

“Yep, definitely found a lot of socks. I’ll put ‘em back real quick.” He bends over and gathers up an armful to start sorting.

Tyson sits behind him on the bed. “You’re in a weird mood today,” he says.

“I’ve never been in a weird mood in my life,” JT says. He plucks up a pair—white, athletic—and slots it in its compartment without looking back at Tyson. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What color suit were you gonna wear tonight?”

“I was thinking the gray one. With the stripes?”

JT looks down at the pile of socks he’s still holding and picks out some navy blue ones. He winds up and sends them flying at Tyson with an exaggerated softball pitch. They bounce off his forehead, landing right in his lap.

“Those ones will match. Go get dressed.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Tyson says. He grabs the socks anyway and wanders out of the room.

JT sorts his pile.

\+ 

That afternoon, JT catches himself looking at Tyson’s pockets every five seconds to make sure he’s not carrying a ring box. This is an objectively stupid thing to do, because it’s pretty obvious that Tyson is not carrying a ring around. Unless he doesn’t have it in a box, which seems like a great way to lose a ring, but not necessarily like something Tyson would never do. 

On one level, JT's just being paranoid. In all likelihood Tyson is not carrying a ring, loose or otherwise, in his pocket. But on another level, he just has to check and double check. Luckily for JT, Tyson’s pockets are immediately adjacent to his dick. Hopefully if there are any questions he can pass all the staring off as just being horny.

JT is sitting at the kitchen island, watching Tyson’s sweatpants pockets travel around the room as Tyson heats up some meal-prep quinoa salmon thing for both of them. He’s almost positive that the pockets are for sure empty of even boxless rings. But this little twinge of nervous gripping dread, which he doesn’t quite understand, keeps him zoned in on Tyson’s pants.

Tyson clears his throat. It’s the super-obvious hacking sound he makes when he feels ignored. JT snaps to attention, guiltily shifting his eyes from crotch area to face area. Tyson raises an eyebrow at him and says, “I said, do you want teriyaki sauce on yours?”

JT wrinkles his nose. “Uh, nah.”

“Okay then, one bland-ass leftover salmon filet coming up,” he says, turning to dig for forks in the silverware drawer.

“Teriyaki is practically all sugar,” JT replies absently. Tyson is standing at an intriguing new angle now as he stabs a fork into each portion. JT’s eyes drift back down to waist level to investigate. “Empty calories.”

Tyson snorts. “My eyes are up here, buddy.” He bumps the drawer shut with his hip and freezes there, posing fake-suggestively. For about a half second he manages a sexy pout, but he can’t quite hold it without breaking into a grin. Tyson has a tupperware of microwaved salmon balanced on each upraised hand like the world’s shittiest waiter, and he’s wearing the navy dress socks JT threw at him earlier with his ratty sweats. JT feels, suddenly, very lucky. Not, however, any less suspicious.

"Genuinely, though, what the fuck is up with you?" Tyson asks, sliding a salmon across the counter to JT. "You're being all spacey and weird."

Instinctively, JT replies, "No I'm not."

Tyson rolls his eyes grandly. “Of course.”

JT drags a fork across his salmon so it flakes apart. “This is good salmon, bud.” 

“Thanks, I’m great at microwaving,” Tyson says. He gets a forkful of quinoa, which JT did not complement because even good quinoa tastes like dirt. “Not the best subject change I’ve heard, though.”

“Sorry, what was the subject?” JT is not going to have this conversation right now, so help him god.

“Exhausting,” Tyson sighs. There’s a smudge of teriyaki sauce on the corner of his mouth. JT decides not to tell him about it.

+

The next day, after the game, things feel off. They lost to the Stars, for starters, and it’s just all downhill from there.

It’s a hard practice. And when it’s finished, Tyson leans over to JT and tells him he’s gonna go have the trainers check out his shoulder because it feels kind of off, and he’ll get an Uber home so don’t wait in the parking lot, and he doesn’t even slap JT’s ass on the way out of the room. Tyson has made JT wait for him in all kinds of parking lots, including once for literally two hours outside of a Target. That’s also easily the least information Tyson has ever offered about his various body problems. JT might as well be looking over a checklist of shit Tyson normally does, and checking off none of it.

Tyson is a little needy, but JT’s not complaining. He’s never once minded listening to all of Tyson’s thoughts about his toenails or whatever weird twinge in his armpits. Idling the car in the parking lot never bugged him either. He didn’t think he would mind it so much if Tyson didn’t do that. But here they are.

So JT doesn’t wait for Tyson in the parking lot, even though he’s a little tempted to do it anyway. Tyson said not to bother, so he gets in the car. They’ve hit that weird part of the Colorado winter where every day is either absolutely freezing or 65 and sunny with no in-between. This morning was on the cold-as-balls side, so the heat is already cranked all the way up when JT turns the car on. He reaches over to turn off the heated seat on the passenger side. No point warming up an ass that isn’t even there, he thinks. Then he thinks, god, what an incredibly pathetic thought.

Maybe he’ll wait for Tyson anyway. It might take him a little bit to find an Uber. Also, getting his shoulder checked out couldn’t take more than twenty minutes. Maybe a half hour, or an hour at the most, but that’s still not a bad wait. Probably, though, Tyson really didn’t want JT to wait. It’s a little harsh to think that Tyson wanted to get rid of him, but it might be true.

He hovers with his hand over the gear shift, trying to decide once and for all if Tyson actually wants to get an Uber home. Little tiny planes keep flying overhead, going to land at the airport half a mile away. Every so often a jet roars over. How much does a private jet cost, JT wonders. Maybe Tyson would be into a private jet.

There’s a sudden tap on the driver’s side window. JT jumps a foot, distracted from his contemplation of the planes. When he turns to look, Kerf is there, hunched over to squint at him through the tinted glass.

“What?” JT shouts through the door.

Unimpressed, Kerf just circles his hand in a ‘roll down the window’ gesture, as though either of them has ever driven a car with the crank kind of window. JT obliges. It figures that Kerf is too dignified to shout at him through a closed car door in the parking lot.

“EJ told me you were sitting in your car crying,” Kerf says. “I thought I’d better come check on you. Maybe take some pictures for Insta.”

“I wasn’t crying,” says JT. He definitely wasn’t crying, and he resists wiping a hand across his face to check.

“No, but you were thousand-yard-staring at the sky and sighing for like five full minutes.”

“No I wasn’t.” He looks at the clock on the dashboard. It’s been closer to ten. Tyson still hasn’t come out, so waiting for him anyway has been a bust. If he goes straight home now, he’ll just end up sitting around alone, drifting around the house. He’s not super interested in alone time right now. “Hey Kerfy, wanna get lunch?”

“Sure, if you’re buying. I want a poke bowl.”

“Fuck off, I’m not buying you poke,” JT says. Poke’s date food, and he’s not just saying that because he and Tyson had both their second and third official dates at Poke City. JT’s definitely not trying to impress anybody with this lunch. “Chipotle, final offer.”

Kerf looks unimpressed, but he shrugs. “Fine. Buy me a burrito and I’ll let you talk in circles around your feelings for twenty minutes,” he says. JT will happily take that deal.

JT trails Kerf’s car to the Chipotle right down the street from the practice rink, and then waits in line behind him while he delivers his ‘Actually, I have a severe nut allergy’ speech to every person behind the counter.

“This is Chipotle, dude. Does Mexican food even have nuts?” JT asks, rapping his knuckles on the sneeze guard.

“As though you know anything about Mexican food,” says Kerf.

JT does not, actually, know anything about Mexican food. He’s just bitching for the sake of bitching, as per usual. He orders himself a burrito and then adds on Tyson’s usual steak bowl without even thinking about it. At the cash register, he slides it into a bag in the hopes that Kerf won’t notice and raise his eyebrows about it. He didn’t get it as a bribe or an apology or anything. JT just knows what Tyson likes at Chipotle.

Kerf settles at a table in the corner, fussing with the tin foil on his burrito and his stack of napkins for long enough that JT starts to get antsy. He slumps down in his seat, taking a giant bite of his own burrito. A cascade of rice and corn tumbles down the front of his shirt.

“Alright,” says Kerf, while JT is distracted wiping food off himself. “What’s wrong with you.” It isn’t a question, because Kerf is kind of a dick.

“Nothing is wrong with me,” JT says, guiltily brushing rice off his clothes and onto the floor. It’s true. Nothing is wrong with him.

Kerf passes him a napkin. “Okay, so then what did Tyson do to freak you out this time?”

“Don’t be fucking rude,” says JT. 

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Kerf says. JT is not freaked out, necessarily. He’s just maybe a little overwhelmed.

“Jesus, okay.” He takes another bite to buy some time, staring out the window at all the exciting nothing happening in the parking lot. “Uh, the other day he asked what I thought about getting married. And I said I didn’t know, because, like, I don’t? But now I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Kerf nods. “Uh huh. Keep it coming,” he says indulgently.

“It’s just, like—fuck.” There’s a rabbit in the parking lot now, hopping around the tires of the parked cars. JT sighs. “He’s only 22. People don’t get married at 22,” he says. 

“Some people definitely do.”

“Sure, religious weirdos. Army wives. Like, cult members, probably.”

Kerf rolls his eyes. “Josty’s not a child bride. He’s a normal guy who tried to have a conversation about the future with his long term boyfriend and got shot down because said long term boyfriend has some kind of issue—“

“I don’t have any issues. I’m just being cautious, and thoughtful and shit.” JT slouches down even further in his chair until he’s almost out of Kerf’s direct eyeline. “He just doesn’t think sometimes.”

Kerf huffs. Through a giant bite of burrito, he says, “Look. It’s not like Josty actually proposed. He didn’t even propose proposing. Maybe cool it a little.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” JT can feel himself being a shit. He knows he has being-a-shit tendencies. But conversations like these always make JT feel like he’s pulling his own teeth. Not that he’s ever done that, though he knows guys who have. Logically if one of your teeth gets knocked loose, it’s better to just yank it and get on with your life and play the next shift. That idea doesn’t really work for him, though. JT wouldn’t just hand his teeth over to the trainers willy-nilly, he would rather that his teeth stayed safely in his head in the first place. The metaphor is getting away from him. He doesn’t want to talk to Kerf anymore. 

JT clears his throat. “So what,” he says, darkly. “Am I just supposed to propose to him? Is that what this is about?”

Kerf stares him down for a minute. “Jesus, you’re really just gonna be like this. Fucking oof.” JT doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean, and he refuses to think any harder about it. “You know what I think,” Kerf proclaims, waving another napkin in JT’s direction like one of those bullfighting flags. He hopes that means Kerf’s next step is to stab him.

“Fuck,” JT mutters. “Bet you’re gonna tell me.”

“I think you should just talk to your boyfriend about this.” 

JT can’t slouch any further without slithering out of his chair and onto the grimy cement floor of the Chipotle. “Whatever you say, Harvard.”

“Do you not actually want to marry him?” Kerf asks. Underneath the exaggerated patience, which JT is happy to ignore, he sounds partly judgy and partly curious. It’s the curiosity that gets to JT. It puts him on the defensive. If Kerf is curious, maybe there’s some shitty real-life possibility that JT and Tyson aren’t quite solid. 

“No. Yes. I don’t know, fuck. Stop asking questions,” says JT.

“Okay, buddy, your time is up. I feel like my emotional IQ is dropping a point every minute I talk to you.”

“You don’t have to be a dick about it.”

Kerf spears him with a witheringly unimpressed look. “You, of all people, don’t get to tell anyone not to be a dick. Go bring your boyfriend his lunch.”

JT grabs the bag with Tyson’s bowl in it and does as he’s told, feeling like none of his problems have been solved. Not that he really expected them to be, but he does always hope.

+

When he gets home, Tyson is sprawled over the couch with his phone two inches from his face. JT tosses his car keys onto the pile of hats and old mail and other keys on the bench by the door, and says “Kobe!” when he makes it. Tyson snorts without looking up. It’s not a real laugh, just a half-hearted huff of air. Any small hope JT had that everything would somehow be magically back to normal flies right out the window.

“What are you looking at?” JT asks, hoping the answer is something easy, like videos of puppies or Tyson’s sister's boyfriend's Twitter.

“I’m researching,” Tyson says.

“Sure, okay. Researching what, Dr. Jost?” JT goes to sit on the couch, in the limited cushion space between Tyson’s one foot on the floor and Tyson’s other foot propped up on the back of the couch.

Tyson drops his phone screen-down on his chest. “What’s your love language?”

“My what?”

“Your love language. There’s five of them and they say how you show love. In, like, relationships.”

“Am I already supposed to know about this? Does everybody know about this?” JT asks, bewildered.

“The quiz says mine is, uh.” He picks his phone back up, scrolls around, squints at the screen. “Words of affirmation and physical touch. You gotta take it too, now.”

“Okay, so you didn’t know about it either until two minutes ago.”

“What?” Tyson asks.

“Because you had to take the quiz,” says JT. It’s already clunky coming out of his mouth, but now he’s committed to this stupid line of conversation. “So, I didn’t have to already know about these things.”

“That’s not at all what this is about,” Tyson says. 

“I’m just saying,” says JT, sinking back as far as he can into the stupid uncomfortable couch.

Tyson sits up. He’s turning his phone over and over in his hand, fast and agitated. “All I wanted to do was figure out why we can’t just communicate.”

As it turns out, JT can sink back further. He needs a coping mechanism besides just trying really hard to lie down. “I hate communication.”

Tyson snorts. “No, really?” he says.

“Sorry, are my words not affirming enough?” It’s a dickish thing to say. JT knows that. Contrary to popular opinion, he is usually aware when he’s going too far. The problem is that he’s not usually quite aware enough to not say it in the first place.

“Okay, yeah, maybe they’re not. And then you straight up tell me you don’t wanna marry me, and you call me Josty sometimes during sex which is fucking weird—”

“I didn’t know that bothered you—”

“Because we don’t communicate! That’s why I want you to take this stupid quiz,” Tyson says, strained. He huffs a sigh and puts his phone down face up on the coffee table. The screen is still on, that stupid quiz shining up into their living room. “You’ve just been acting weird lately. And it started when I brought up—like, when I talked about getting married. Will you just tell me what’s up?”

Once when JT was little he accidentally swallowed a Werthers whole, and he could feel it in his throat all the way down. He couldn’t talk, all he could do was just swallow and swallow around it, and it felt like he’d never be able to get it out. JT hasn’t even had a Werthers in probably ten years, maybe not since he choked, but he feels like he has one in his throat now. He doesn’t know what to say to Tyson to fix this. And even if he did he wouldn’t be able to, because of the Werthers. He can almost feel it lodged right behind his sternum, blocking him up. He really, really doesn’t know what to say.

So he just shrugs, trying to blink at Tyson in a way that communicates ‘please don’t yell at me.’

Tyson drops his head into his chest. He takes a long, deep breath in, then he lets it out slow. Then he does that two more times. Then he looks up at JT and asks, “Are you going to propose to me?”

“Oh my god, no,” JT says, louder than he means to. Tyson deflates, and JT can’t quite tell if he’s relieved or disappointed.

“Huh,” Tyson says.

JT thinks about all the socks and pockets and drawers with no rings in them. In the interests of being fair, he asks, “Uh, were you going to propose to me?”

Tyson leans his head back so slowly and so far over the arm of the couch that JT is briefly a little worried that he’s about to strain something. “Nope,” he says, dragging out the N and popping the P. JT can see his molars.

“Oh. Cool.” 

“Shit, is it cool?” Tyson asks. “That’s good. I’m glad we’re both cool with this.” He curls his legs back in towards his body and rolls off the couch. With his back to JT, he says, “I’m gonna go take a nap. You go—do what you want.”

Tyson leaves the room. His footsteps echo as he climbs the stairs. JT says on the couch. He’s slumped at a weird angle that kind of hurts his neck, so he straightens up. This is probably not the outcome Kerf was imagining when he told JT to talk to his boyfriend. It’s probably not even what Kerf would consider a talk, as such.

At some point it started snowing outside. Just a little bit, tiny flakes drifting into the window screens. Probably won’t accumulate. JT is sweating, from the confrontation and also because, he realizes, he didn’t even take his coat off when he came in.

He reaches up to the zipper and then freezes with his hand halfway to his collarbone. He should get it over with. If he proposes, then they can stop talking about it, and he can stop fucking thinking about it.

JT gets off the couch. He picks up the car keys from where he threw them earlier. He goes out the back door. On the path between the house and the garage he steps in a puddle of slush that soaks into the toe of his sneaker and right through to his sock, but he keeps walking. He gets in the car, turns it on. He pulls out of the garage into the alley.

There’s a million fancy jewelry stores in their neighborhood, and a bunch more in the mall a few blocks away. He could have a ring in fifteen minutes. He could be back to propose in twenty, assuming he can find good street parking.

He gets to the end of the alley without running over any trash cans, which is a victory and a half considering how distracted he is. He’s never even googled wedding rings. He has no idea what they’re supposed to be like. Maybe it matters if they’re silver or gold, or whatever other metal that jewelry comes in. He tries to picture the rings that the married guys on the team have, and can’t come up with any characteristics outside of ‘round’. He could call one of them to ask, but he doesn’t particularly want to get lectured or laughed at right now.

Anyway, none of those assholes has ever bought an engagement ring for a guy. It must be different than buying one for a woman. JT is in way over his head.

He drives around the block once, trying to remember where the closest jewelry store is. Then he circles one more time, and then enough times that he loses track and he’s sort of worried that their neighbors might notice. He’s thinking again. It always starts in the car.

He and Tyson have been together for almost two years, so it’s not like they’ve never been mad at each other. But somehow it’s never been over something that felt like an actual big deal before. Like, Tyson forgot to unload the dishwasher, or JT watched an episode of the special Chopped with the kid chefs without him, or one of them gets injured and mad at the whole world about it. Small stuff, not marriage or communication. 

This might be a milestone, and JT doesn’t like it.

While he's making what might be his fourteenth right turn around the block, he sees the slightly crumpled Chipotle bag in the front footwell. It must have fallen down there at some point since his lunch with Kerfy, an hour that feels now like a day ago. That was supposed to be Tyson's lunch.

All at once, JT realizes: he’s doing something stupid. It’s like his whole brain just shuts off whenever it trips over any marriage shit. Tyson is young, sure. But so is JT. He’s getting up there in hockey time, but any outside person would say that he’s still got his whole life ahead of him.

Plus, he’s happy with Tyson the way they are. Or, at least, he’s happy when he isn’t freaking the fuck out and freaking Tyson out in return. There’s no need to keep throwing himself face first at the idea of getting married. Which means, in turn, that there’s no need to buy a ring either.

JT decides. He’s going to go back home, where he will talk to Tyson. He’s gonna say, to Tyson, the things he should say, and not just the things that seem like they’ll be sort of funny the second before he says them. It might suck. But he is going to do it. He turns the car back down their alley and then into their garage. 

This time he does bump a garbage can. Nobody sees him do it, so it’s fine.

He stumps back into the house, kicking his slushy Nikes off at the door. Tyson is slumped in the kitchen, digging through the junk drawer.

“There’s no straws in there,” JT says. “I keep meaning to get more.”

Tyson jumps. “Fuck, where did you just come from?”

“I got you Chipotle. Steak bowl with extra guac.” He raises the bag and shakes it a little.

“Did you go to Chipotle right now? I didn’t even know you left,” Tyson says.

JT lowers the bag. “No, uh. I actually went to go get a ring. To propose.” 

A strangled laugh bursts out of Tyson. He slams the junk drawer shut, facing JT over the kitchen island. His hair is all flat and sweaty at the front, like maybe he’s been putting his head in his hands.

“Don’t worry. I didn’t actually get one,” JT says. He walks over to the counter and sets the Chipotle bag down two feet away from Tyson. It doesn’t seem right to get too close yet. Tyson doesn’t react at all. JT’s heart feels like it’s been dunked in a toilet. He doesn’t want to say the next part of the stuff he decided to say when he was circling the block. But he does it. “I thought that before I went all out like that, I should probably ask you, uh, what you thought. About getting married to me.”

Tyson exhales softly. “I brought that up because it’s something we should talk about, you know? Because I’m definitely into the idea of being with you for a really long time, and it would be cool to get married at some point. But, uh.” He clears his throat. “It doesn’t need to be right now, I don’t think.”

“Yeah,” says JT, more relieved than he expected to be. “I think you’re right. About not right now, and about being together for—for a while.” He reaches out and grabs Tyson’s hand over the counter. 

“You kinda lost your shit about the idea,” Tyson says very evenly. The hand JT is holding is limp and sweaty, and with the other one Tyson’s picking really intensely at the countertop with his fingernails like he’s trying to scratch out one of the shiny clear parts. The quartz, or whatever. JT took a gen ed geology class one semester, for all the good that has ever done him in his life.

“It was a lot to think about. You know I hate thinking.” JT says it before he remembers what else he decided, about not joking and about thinking before speaking.

“I know you hate thinking,” Tyson says.

He takes a deep breath. “I’m really sorry, Tys.” 

“It’s whatever,” Tyson says. 

“You should stop saying stuff is whatever when it clearly isn’t whatever,” says JT.

“You don’t get to decide what’s whatever for me.” Tyson says. “This is hard. Like, honestly, I’ll give you twenty dollars if you can name any emotion without getting all weird and vague about it.”

JT laughs, breathless. “Yeah, it’s fucking hard.” He swallows. The stupid Werthers is still there behind his sternum, but he can ignore it. He can. Fuck the Werthers. “But, like. I want you to be happy? I, uh, love you, Tys.”

“Aw, shit, you never say that.” Tyson’s voice is getting thick. If he cries, JT will cry, and JT fucking hates crying, so he opts for getting indignant instead.

“What the fuck, I say it all the time. I said it, like, two days ago after you scored on Fleury.”

“It doesn’t count if it’s during a celly. Or if you’re drunk,” Tyson says. He stops digging his nails into the granite to wipe his nose on his sleeve. Maybe he’s crying a little, but at least he doesn’t let go of JT’s hand.

JT’s face gets hot. “Well. I do love you.” Tyson squeezes his hand, and JT squeezes back.

“I love you too, even if you fucking suck at talking to me,” Tyson says. When JT looks him in the face, he’s smiling. It’s small, and his face is all red and teary, but his eyes are crinkled up and he squeezed JT’s hand.

JT looks Tyson right in the eyes for as long as he possibly can, which feels like three years. “Also, I did get you Chipotle. You should eat it.”

Tyson shrugs. “Yeah. I can do that.”

They settle in right there at the island. JT watches Tyson eat his Chipotle, which he chews with his mouth open. Maybe later they’ll take a nap.

 

**Author's Note:**

> hope everybody enjoyed this edition of ‘journaling about intimacy’, which is also an ode to the fast casual dining options of the southern denver metro area. it also ended up being kind of more about teeth than i intended, but what are you gonna do.
> 
>  
> 
> come say hey on [tumblr](http://softbarrie.tumblr.com/)!


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